


above all else

by monado



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Gay/Bi Awakening, Gen, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, One-Sided Attraction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 07:55:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20131984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monado/pseuds/monado
Summary: They all start to catch his eye. He tells himself it’s purely an aesthetic appreciation, but his heart beats beats beats-And then there's the professor.





	above all else

**Author's Note:**

> idk just kinda banged this out
> 
> might do a second chapter to tie it up depending!

Dorothea started it.

Admittedly, Dimitri doesn't know much about her -- only that she flirts, quite often, and that she's strikingly beautiful, and that she seems to have a rapport with most everyone in the Academy. 

He’s finishing dinner, riding a warmth stoked by the food in his belly, conversation ringing in his ears when he sees it.

Dorothea is leaned into someone’s personal space, eyes low and arm outstretched on the table -- hardly unusual, given what Dimitri has seen of her -- but what _ is _unusual is the identity of her target. A cherub-faced, delighted girl sits back, giggling and chatting as if the only one in the hall is Dorothea.

It's not as if Dimitri’s unaware that this exists. He’s been raised on naught but tolerance and love for his people, and has no problems with it (unlike _ some _ of the nobility); but knowing of it and seeing it for the first time are separate beasts. 

Dimitri feels himself staring, but he can't look away.

* * *

“_Sooo_, got something to say to me, Your Highness?”

Only his years of training prevent him from jumping. “Dorothea,” he starts, “I didn't see you there.”

“Apologies,” she says, tone curt and eyes unreadable. 

Silence follows for a beat, and Dimitri can tell Dorothea is tense. Guilt grasps him by the heart, wriggling and trembling. He sighs. “I,” he starts, stalling briefly, “I hope I have not made you uncomfortable.”

He stares at the tile on the floor. He steps sideways to allow for students to pass, though it's mostly for courtesy’s sake, as they give him a wide berth anyway. Dorothea sighs.

“Look. I'm not here to pick a fight.” At this, Dimitri glances up quickly, a denial on his lips. She holds her hand up to stay his tongue. “I don't care what people think. Usually.” Her gaze turns hard. “But if the future King of Faerghus is made uncomfortable by who I am, I would like to know now. Just to know, you know?” Levity plays across her voice, too-sweet and wrong.

The weight of the topic has him rigid. “No, I- it's not that at all, I just-”

He groans, leaning his forehead on a hand. “Dorothea, I am truly sorry. I did not mean to make you feel like- a spectacle.” His throat feels like it might close up, and he swallows to stave it off.

Evidently, something of his genuine regret seeps through, since Dorothea’s next words are far more softly spoken. “It’s alright.” A quiet giggle has Dimitri dropping his hand, resolving not to hide while in a conversation. Her eyes are twinkling, evaluating, observing. A twinge of unrest sparks down his spine. “I do have a question to ask, though, if you would forgive my impudence.”

He furrows his eyebrows. “Of course. I’m glad to listen. However, there's no need to address me so formally,” he adds, smiling as best he can.

Dorothea smiles too. It’s pointy, but not unkind. “It’s not that.” She places a finger on her chin, the very image of grace. “Is it because you understood?”

It takes him a beat to connect the question to the context. “Understood? What do you mean?”

Dorothea’s gaze drops. “Ah, never mind,” she says, quickly, “I'm sorry to prod. I’ll be on my way now.” She places a hand on her chest and gives him a short bow, and she's off, her shoes _ tock tock tock_ing on the tile.

He’s left more confused than ever, eyes glued to her retreating form.

* * *

It plagues his thoughts.

He’s supposed to be studying, or note-taking, or _ sleeping_, but instead he’s staring into nothing, chest tied into knots, stomach churning, mind racing.

He doesn't know why, and it’s driving him mad.

A light shock knocks him out of his daydreaming. A piece of paper falls to the floor, balled-up and crumpled, and he realizes he’s been hit by it. Sylvain and Felix sit behind him, one quietly laughing, the other openly glaring. Felix makes an exasperated hand motion, tied up with all the derision in the world, and Dimitri shamefully turns back to their professor, praying he hadn't noticed. 

If he’s this obvious, it's a problem. He doubles down in his efforts, resolutely pushing away the dawning thoughts forcing their way into the open spaces in his skull. 

* * *

Felix falls into place first. 

It’s during training, because of course it is. Dimitri lands a punishing shot to Felix’s shoulder, and he stumbles back, fury crumbling into disdain at the wooden lance levelled at his throat. Dimitri smiles, commending him for a session well executed, and Felix snarls further.

Later, removed from their fight, Dimitri silently notes that he looks nice without the grimace- 

He happens across Ashe, and realizes he’s always adored his freckles. He tells himself it’s purely an aesthetic appreciation, but his heart beats beats beats and he power-walks away to solitude and-

Goddess forbid, _ Sylvain _ catches his eye, and albeit briefly, he feels a hot rush of shame at being one and the same with the girls who watch him-

But the thing that truly finds him at odds with himself is the professor. The professor, calm and cool and strong and smart, and yet so delicate-looking, a nose like glass and cheeks rounded with youth even still. The easy, lounging way he carries himself, confidence and humility clashing and merging, forging themselves into something uniquely curious. 

Dimitri stares. Maybe he always did. He can’t fool himself into thinking otherwise.

It starts to take over. The consuming worry, the inadequacy -- they drive him deep into his studies first, and deep into training second. They make him too-aggressive with a sword, too-quick and forceful and perilously close to something he cannot, cannot embody-

Byleth pulls him out of the tournament. Fear and frustration twine together, squeezing his heart with something akin to dread. It’s the first time such an emotion has been levered towards his professor. He doesn’t like it.

Silence weighs between them in the gear storage room. It was the only private place near enough the tournament. Dimitri muses that he must’ve shown off far too much during the fights, for them to be so hastily met.

“What’s gotten into you,” his teacher says, crossing his arms and swaying slightly to the side. As always, his face is unreadable, his tone cryptic.

Dimitri looks at his feet. “I’m terribly sorry, Professor. I didn’t mean to be overly rough.” An indulgent silence fits between his words, and it prompts him to continue. “I just have… a lot on my mind, as of late. And I suppose it’s manifesting like this.”

Shame fills his belly. Resolving himself to look up, he clears his throat. “I-”

His professor’s eyes swim with concern. He’s so hard to read -- but Dimitri’s known him for half a year and has been steadily working on it, so the concern is obvious as anything. Excitement flicks through him, which is then quickly dulled to nothing as the situation dawns back on him.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, gaze dropping like a stone back to its rightful place, but he can still see the professor in his peripherals. He’s shaking his head.

“That’s not what I want,” he says, simply. He waits for Dimitri to raise his head before continuing. “I want to know what’s wrong.”

All at once, the battle high burns to a crisp and smoulders into red-hot cinders. His chest burns. It spreads to his face, a mixture of shame and mortification and panic.

He trusts his teacher, but he’s not ready to admit this even to himself, much less someone _ involved _in the problem.

“I’m sorry, Professor, but I’m not ready to discuss it,” he manages, voice training saving his words from wavering.

He simply nods. “If anything more serious happens, I will take it upon myself to figure out what ails you.”

It’s a threat, but it makes Dimitri’s ears burn. He laughs awkwardly. “I suppose that is fair,” he says weakly. That intense stare pins him down and freezes him down to his toes.

He adores it.

* * *

It’s far from the only thing he finds he adores about his professor.

It’s like a dam has been broken. Things he would have previously smiled mindlessly about weigh on him in the dead of night, pushing at his insides and rearranging him into mush. His glances at other boys take a backseat to the magnet that is Byleth; he orbits his teacher, now more than ever before, and he has the wherewithal to understand that it borders on suspicious. 

But he can’t stop himself. It feels too nice, too thrilling -- he observes his professor, studies his minute slips of emotion, viewing the pride he shows for his students with a rolling joy. Each personal praise sings in his blood, each brief correcting touch electrifying his veins.

He notices his teacher more pointedly than before, and catches himself wandering the monastery with little aim other than to encounter him. And encounter him he does, more often than not -- especially on Sundays. Byleth wanders the monastery at his leisure on Sunday, drifting in and out of conversation and idly wandering the halls, only occasionally with purpose. He haunts like a ghost, but an awfully helpful one, Dimitri thinks, considering the amount of people he’s overheard mentioning him delivering a lost item directly to them. A swell of affection fills the cavity of his chest whenever he thinks about it: quiet, solemn Professor, mind soaking up of the minutiae of each student’s everyday lives, their likes and dislikes, their hobbies. The professor, offering extra training to the students who express worries; the professor, using his one free day to tend to the lives of others. 

Byleth _ cares, _ so much that it has Dimitri weak in the knees with affection.

Every day off, without fail, he eventually circles around to Dimitri to chat, and even the anticipation of it has him smiling so wide he feels his cheeks ache. Sometimes it’s naught but a short exchange, sometimes an invitation to tea, other times a heated debate -- no matter what it is, Dimitri leaves the conversation feeling thoroughly warmed.

It’s all so, so dangerous.

* * *

He’s gardening with Dedue, a moment of would-be peace, but he’s tense as a rock. Lately, he’s been torn between euphoria and a horrid cocktail of fear and shame, and today it seems as if the latter takes precedent.

He can feel his retainer’s eyes on him, so he starts chatting, mindlessly remarking about the recent assignments and field tests and anything his mind can grasp for longer than a second.

It’s not fooling anyone.

“Your Highness,” he says, baritone cutting a deep blade into Dimitri’s mind, “Forgive me if this is too forward. Are you feeling all right?”

Frustration at the distance Dedue maintains even now is eclipsed by the fear bracketing his consciousness. He opens his mouth to speak, turning his head, and says nothing. 

Resting on his haunches, hands swamped by filthy gardening gloves, Dimitri thinks. “Dedue,” he starts, knowing the answer before the question even forms on his lips, “Were I to tell you something unbecoming, in the utmost secrecy, would you think ill of me?”

It’s foolish, considering Dedue doesn’t even know what it is of which he speaks, but he nods, stalwart and kind. “Of course, Your Highness. I strive to be that which you need. Nothing could drive me from your side.”

Dimitri takes a deep breath. “Would you feel odd if I told you I’ve been thinking of… things unbefitting for a king? Insofar as… heirs.”

Dedue tilts his head. Dimitri feels as if his chest is made of glass.

No one is in the greenhouse but them. The door is shut. Were he to bury this within him any longer, the glass may turn outwards, shattering into chunks thick enough to tear, to render bloody.

His throat already feels shredded, but he speaks anyway.

“Dedue, I- I feel as though I-” No more fancy words. “I find myself… fantasizing about the company of men.” He turns his head down, sighing, shame pressing on his shoulders. "Not _men._ Our professor."

Dedue’s face is stone. Not even a minute change of expression rests behind his eyes. Dimitri twitches.

“Don’t you find it abhorrent? That the future king of Faerghus is having such- such impure thoughts?” He shakes his head violently, sadness winding the motion down. “Useless thoughts. I need an heir, one day. Not to mention how utterly inappropriate it is.”

His companion’s eyes melt into understanding. “I am sorry this plagues you so.” He looks towards the plants, then back up. “I presume this is the reason for your distraction as of late.”

Shame knocks on his heart’s door once again. “Yes,” he says, simply. His voice drops to a whisper, self-loathing raw and sharp on his tongue. “Dedue, I don’t know what to do.”

Silence sits between them. Dedue has always been a reasonable companion, reliable in all matters practical and impractical both. But he has never opened up to him emotionally, not like this, and the seeds of discomfort grow and sprout faster than weeds.

“Your Highness,” he finally says, “I do not know how to solve such a dilemma.”

He doesn’t know what he expected. Tightening his gloves, he paints on a smile and digs back into the dirt. When he speaks, he does so too quickly. “Well, that’s alright, I’ll figure it-”

“But know that whoever you court, you have my full support.” Dimitri freezes. “There are always options.” A heavy beat passes. “I will see you through any path you take, Your Highness.”

The honorific stings, a bit, during such a personal exchange, but Dimitri hardly notices over the torrent of gratitude that falls over him.

“What did I do to deserve you,” he whispers, a smile cresting his cheeks.

“You know the answer to that, my liege,” Dedue says, voice soft and fond.

A lingering pat on the back is the least Dimitri can offer.

* * *

The moon is high when he knocks on Dorothea’s door.

The wind is cold, and it tousles her bedhead just slightly. Confusion and annoyance play across her aquiline face, as does the glow of the lamps.

Dimitri folds into a deep bow. “I apologize for intruding so late,” he says, voice muffled by his position. He straightens up, and her gaze has shifted from annoyance to something indiscernible. “I wish to… consult you about a sensitive matter.”

She smiles, small and genuine, and steps aside. Seeming to think better of it, she sweeps into an exaggerated bow too, hair cascading over her shoulders. “I live to serve, Your Majesty.”

The usage of the wrong title combined with the exuberance of the action has Dimitri loosening a bit. He walks into her room, feeling better already. “Please, Dorothea.”

The door creaks shut. “I got you, Your Highness,” she says, winking briefly. Dimitri finds himself reddening just a tinge at the action.

She gestures to the chair at her desk, and perches on the edge of her bed. Her room is well-kept, but homey in its clutter, notes piled haphazardly around her desk with seemingly no rhyme or reason. She doesn’t apologize for it, and somehow, this emboldens Dimitri.

“Dorothea,” he begins, “I apologize if this is too forward. I simply do not know who else to talk to about this.”

She smiles. It says it all, understanding playing across her face in a sweet and gentle swoop. “Your secrets are safe with me,” she says, genuine and sweet.

Dimitri almost wants to tear up at the kindness shown, the awareness coupled with the sympathy and complete non-judgement. Of course, he didn’t expect _ disgust _from her, but he was hedging his bets so as not to expect too much from a virtual stranger, no matter how kind they seem.

He huffs, smiling. “Well, straight to the point then. I think I am in love with the professor. Er, Byleth,” he clarifies, the name sitting strange on his tongue.

Dorothea’s eyes are wide. Perhaps he should not have jumped to assumptions. “Oh my,” she says, curling a lock of hair idly. “Love? That’s awfully serious.”

He can feel the heat rising to his cheeks. “Well. From what I know of the sensation, this is it.”

She hums, seemingly lost in thought. “Are you sure? I don’t mean to belittle what you’re feeling, I just wonder if it’s something more like puppy love.”

He frowns. “Is that not love as well?”

“Of a sort. It’s far less serious than _ love _love. You know?” He does not, but refrains from saying so. “Oh, Dimitri. Whatever will we do with you?” She smushes her cheek up with her hand, staring intently at him. He blinks. He doesn’t need to ask aloud to get her to elaborate. “Well, you can’t act on it for four years.”

The thought gnarls his gut and vicegrips his heart. He swallows, eyes falling, thinking of all the other adoring students and teachers Byleth devotes his time to. His chest shrivels and feels fit to burst at the thought of someone else snapping him up in the meantime, and it tumbles at the thought that there’s nothing he can do about it.

Possibly ever.

_ Oh dear _ is murmured from somewhere across him, but he’s too busy gripping the edges of his nightshirt to really listen. He can muster but a whisper. “What do I do?”

“It’s not- totally impossible that things could work out,” Dorothea offers, though she doesn’t sound sure. “I mean, the power imbalance might be weird, though you _ are _a prince, so I suppose that’s different.” She kicks her feet idly, then sighs. “I'm sorry, Dimi. This is a tough one.”

He peeks up. “Dimi?”

She stares back at him, unabashed. “Oh, you know. I call everyone I like by nicknames.” She tilts her head. “You mind?”

Warmed by her casual demeanour, he smiles. “Not at all,” he replies, and watches her brighten, before sinking back into the atmosphere of the topic at hand. “May I ask something personal?”

“Of course.”

“How did you… know?”

She laughs. “I didn't do anything so grand as fall in love.” He reddens. “I just always knew girls were pretty. Do you think they are? Or are you strictly a man’s man?”

The question is posed with no allusion to his position, no consideration to his need for an heir. A weight lifts off of his chest, and he's grateful, even if it’s only temporary. “I don't know. I've only- felt this way once.” He feels his mouth curving into a complex line, unsure how to react to his own words. “Have you been in love?”

“That's a loaded question.” She stares a hole into him. Were he a less-trained man, he might have shrunken into the chair. “You've seen me shop around.” She swings her feet onto the bed, laying down and crossing her legs simultaneously. “If I fell in love, it would certainly solve my problems. Hmm, actually -- only if they could take care of me. Otherwise it could be even more of a chore.” She sighs. “So, no, and I'm not sure I want to just yet.” She turns her head towards him, something small and vulnerable in her eyes. “Can I ask _ you _an invasive question now?”

He reddens. “Invasive? I apologize.”

“No no, it’s fine,” she says, waving her hand. “Can I?”

“Yes, of course. It’s only fair.”

Her smile turns crooked, from what Dimitri can see of it. “What’s it like, then? Loving someone?”

Dimitri’s world shifts ice-cold for the barest of moments. “I- I fear that I’m rather unequipped to talk about it.”

“Nonsense!” She turns, laying sideways, knees pointed towards him. She looks so comfortable -- a far cry from his own demeanour. “We’re having a nice honest talk here. And I’m curious.” Something flits across her gaze. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, of course.”

He stops himself from playing with a strand of hair. “Well.” He shifts, the chair giving a hearty creak, the old oak holding firm. “I suppose it…” 

The thoughts playing through his mind bring a blaze to his cheeks. He buries his face in his hands. “It’s embarrassing.” The thought of saying anything makes his ears almost hurt with the force of his blush.

Dorothea laughs. It’s sonorous and gentle, and it makes him feel a little bit better. 

He resolves himself. Dorothea has given him a piece of herself, and it wouldn’t be just to skimp out on the exchange. He clears his throat. “Have you noticed how I… orbit him?”

She nods. “Insofar as I hardly see him.”

He shakes his head. “Right. He's not your teacher. Well. I orbit him. I know I do, and I know it sits ill on my reputation, but I can’t bring myself to stop. Without him, I… am not happy. Not driven,” he adds, twiddling his hands.

A hum breaks him out of his reverie. “Sounds like a pain.”

He laughs. “He is the best thing to ever happen to me,” he says, and he’s surprised to find it rings truthful. “Even if he doesn’t -- can’t reciprocate, being able to stay near him brings me a peace I have never found. A desire to action. To make things better.” _ For him. _

Dorothea gazes steadily at him before smiling. “I’m happy for you.”

He finds that he, too, is happy.

He's happy with things as they are; he's happy to wait, happy to simply share in Byleth's life. If he decides he can't or doesn't return his affections when the time comes, he thinks maybe he can even learn to be okay with that, too, as long as he can stay by his side. If he can see him with some frequency -- he imagines honouring his professor in as a Faerghus tactical leader, as his adviser, as a simple citizen -- that would be wonderful, but even when he imagines none of these futures coming to pass, instead corresponding by mail -- it's not ideal, but he could live. But it is as nothing when he imagines standing by his side, seeing him to bed at night, sharing a closeness he's never dreamed of having-

"My, my. You really are hopeless."

He blinks out of his reverie. "Hm?"

She smiles.


End file.
